The Vampire Bat Man

The Vampire Bat Man - Part 9

Commissioner James Grosu stands in the dilapidated old Ace Chemicals building, alone, hyper-aware of the sound of each dripping pipe, scurrying rat, sudden gust of wind.

He isn't a cowardly man. But the urban legends surrounding this "Vampire Bat Man"-- that he feasts on the blood of men, that he can tell a person's sins just by looking at him-- has roused an ancestral superstition encoded in The Commissioner's DNA.

When The Vampire Bat Man emerges from the shadows, The Commissioner doesn't flinch. He doesn't scream-- though every impulse in his nervous system shouts out for him to. He just stares.

The Vampire Bat Man extends a black leather hand.

The Commissioner doesn't take it.

"You're him, aren't you?" Grosu says.

"Yes. I am the one your newspapers call 'The Vampire Bat Ma--'"

"No," The Commissioner interrupts. "You're HIM. You're... 'The Dragon'. Lord Dracula."

Dracula cocks his head to the side, studying The Commissioner.

"I haven't heard that name spoken aloud in years. And who are you, you strange little man?"

"My name is Jim Grosu. I am the police commissioner of this city. But you already know that. If you're asking how I know who you are... the answer is: my mother. Her side of the family immigrated to American from what is now called 'Romania', but used to be called 'Wallachia'".

"And why did they leave?" Dracula asks, knowing the answer already.

"You. They left to escape you".

"That was several lifetimes ago, son. But, from what I remember, Wallachia was never safer than when it was under my rule. I secured our border against invaders, and rendered domestic crime a distant memory".

"You impaled your subjects' heads on spikes".

"It was...a different time."

"It sure was. Hundreds of years ago. Which means I know exactly what you are..."

The Commissioner reaches into the crook of his left arm, for his shoulder holster.

Dracula doesn't flinch. Guns don't bother him. Bullets pass through him, as if he is smoke.

Except, the commissioner doesn't pull a gun from within his coat. He pulls out a cross.

Dracula recoils into the shadows and conceals his face with his cape. Ever since he became what he is, the sight of Christ on The Cross has caused him physical pain.

Dracula is surprised to find himself wondering--if only for a moment-- whether not not that is still the case. Has his recent flirtation with fighting on the side of the angels redeemed him in God's eyes?

The Commissioner reaches out towards the nearest wall and yanks a fire alarm.

And the answer to Dracula's question comes pouring down like the wrath of God himself.

"Holy water, you evil bastard," The Commissioner growls.

The consecrated liquid burns on contact with Dracula's body-- burning away not just his delusions of redemption, but the "Vampire Bat Man" costume he wears, as well. The stylized black leather melts into an amorphous blob of smoldering tar at his feet.

Paralyzed by shock, naked and shivering from pain, Dracula howls.

"Come on, then!," he screams, as his vocal chords disintegrate. "Have your revenge!".

This time The Commissioner pulls a pistol-sized, collapsible crossbow from with his trench coat.

He fires at Dracula.

Dracula's feet no longer resemble feet. He is unable to run. But there's just enough left of his ears to allow his preternatural hearing to listen to the wooden bolt as it slices through the air.

Dracula closes his eyes as he braces for impact.

But the impact never comes.

Instead, he hears the sickening sound of sharpened wood slicing through human flesh. It's a sound he has heard countless times before. Only this time...it makes his heart sink.

Dracula opens his eyes.

Little Bruce lays slumped at his feet, with a crossbow bolt embedded in his chest.

"Don't be mad," the child chokes out. A trickle of blood runs down his chin. "I hid in the trunk of your car, 'cause I thought you might need a sidekick".

Dracula wipes the blood from young Bruce's chin with his hand. He resists the urge to lick it off his finger.

"What makes you think I would ever need your help, child?"

Little Bruce holds up a monkey wrench that has had a little vampire bat symbol scratched onto it.

"I turned off the water" young Bruce says, smiling. His teeth are stained red with his own blood.

As the words exit his mouth, the sprinklers stop raining.

"Well, I'll be damned..." Dracula says.

Dracula glares at The Commissioner.

Startled by the sight of Dracula's muscle fibers weaving themselves back together, he drops his weapon.

"I--I didn't mean..," The Commissioner stammers.

But before he can finish stuttering out his apology, Dracula explodes into a cloud of ravenous vampire bats and descends upon the lawman like a tornado made of razor-sharp fangs and claws.

After making quick work of The Commissioner--turning him into little more than a crimson splatter on the wall in a manner of seconds-- Dracula re-assumes his human form, and kneels down next to young Bruce.

"Am I dying?" Bruce asks, the light fading from his eyes.

"No," Dracula lies. "If Holy Water can hurt me, then it means that there is a God. And if there is a God, then he would never, ever let a brave and selfless young man like you die to protect a monster like me".

"You're lying," Bruce coughs. "I can feel it. And it's not fair. You got to live forever, and I b-barely just got here".

Dracula pets the young man's hair.

"Make me like you..." little Bruce pleads, with his dying breath.

Dracula smiles at him. A crimson tear rolls down his cheek.

"No."

Dracula carries young Bruce's body outside, and lays next to his corpse as the sun rises.

He hears the sound of a robin chirping, off in the distance.

THE END.